"An' then'll come a flood er a fire and swoop down on everything."
"But the land can't be burned up, and it isn't ginerally drowned out. Prairie sand can lick up a good deal of water."
I had been half listening to the rambling disputations, and now I turned from my rough desk by the window, which was simply a board with four legs, the two front ones shortened, to Mr. Harris, who stood by his, that was my admiration, though not long afterward it was donated to me and he had a much finer one.
"Is it true that Menard was sick of his bargain?" I asked doubtfully.
"I believe he was," Mr. Harris laughed. "I'd like to buy it now for fifty dollars. I don't believe he has done any better. Le Mai, a French trader, bought part of it. But Ouilmette's old house is still standing, stone and logs and plaster."
Michigan Avenue came through it long ago. The Indian wife was quite admired in her day, being tall and straight, and though many white women could not read in those times, she was both shrewd and intelligent.
"I must hunt it up," I said. The little girl was always asking about old places and strange things that we call legends now.
She had wondered about the name. I had inquired of several. It was an old Indian appellation, it was said, and meant "wild onion." Once the great Mississippi was called Chacaqua or Divine River, and was supposed to be under the care of the Thunder god.
"Oh, that is very pretty," she declared, "though we do not believe there is a god for everything, and gods living in various places."
"And another legend is that a great tribe of Tamaroras always called their chiefs by this title 'Checaqua.'"